


Haven't Got the Words for You

by QuantumPsyche



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuantumPsyche/pseuds/QuantumPsyche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Robin Hood-esque thief he is, Matthew has strong morals. Limited, but strong. That is, until the mysterious Green Duchess approaches him with the intent of saving his town, at a price. The price? Kill her enemy, the White Baron. Swallowing his ethics, he agrees to assassinate the Baron. His life couldn't have changed more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mansard Roof

**Author's Note:**

> Was trying to work on Coffee Shop, but I got this idea instead. Let's see how far this goes. Hopefully, it goes far enough.

 There's nothing he hated more than these newly built castles.

 

For some absurd reason, the contractors always just _had_ to make the walls smoother. Never thinking of people like him that had the intention of scaling them. No sir. Not at all. Older establishments had so many handholds, gifts from lazy builders or from the test of time. But no. Nowadays, people were becoming aware of the fact that if one was rich enough for a castle or a tower, they had something valuable. Had to use better materials and architects. Just to make his job harder.

 

Matthew's fingers were chafing under the worn leather gloves. Gritting his teeth, he bitterly thought that he'd have to replace it after this. He kept climbing, feeling the tips of the gloves fraying and exposing his fingers. He mentally sighed.

 

The wind was picking up. His black cloak flapped, making some noise. Matthew bit his lips and fought the urge to grab it and cease the noise. What if the Baron had heard it, and was now debating to peek out of his curtains? He cursed silently. He pushed the worry to the back of his mind, and concentrated on climbing to the window of the study.

 

He had observed the castle for weeks; he'd have to to achieve his task. The castle was enormous, and nearly impregnable through his usual means. And this wasn't his usual task.

 

The Green Duchess had come to him and his father at their mill some months ago, with supposed urgent business. Apparently, the Duchess had an eye on Matthew and his small village for some time, and thought that he was the best for the errand she had in mind. The errand? Kill her rival, the White Baron.

 

Matthew was horrified. How would he kill a man? A Baron, no less. How _could_ he? He could do anything but that. He instinctively looked around for his father, but remembered the Lady had sent him away when the details of the task was explained. The Duchess had looked bemused, a small smirk playing on her pink lips. He felt as if he were going to throw up.

 

Shaking, he shook his head. He was _not_ going to do this. Not at all. Her smirk turned into a wolfish grin. Playful, yet deadly. Matthew didn't even try to hide his distress.

 

“Oh, _Matthew_ ,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. It made Matthew's stomach turn. She adjusted the flower in her hair and motioned to one of her guards. The guard went outside to the carriage and back, this time wielding a large bag. He dropped the bag onto the table they were sitting at, resounding with a clang. Some of the contents spilled out. Matthew's eyes widened. _It couldn't be._

 

The large bag was filled with gold.

 

“I've some more of these back at my castle. If you do the task, I'll give you this bag now and the rest after you're finished.”

 

Matthew's mind whirled. This would really help his father and the village. He sat there, staring at the bag, mind processing the events that laid before him. But he couldn't. He had come close before, but actually killing a man was out of his league. After some seconds, he felt the Duchess's gaze. He quickly decided that he'd lie. There wasn't any chance that she knew, anyway.

 

Nervously looking up at the Lady, he said offhandedly, “Well, I mean, I'm just a miller's son after all--”

 

“Cut the shit, fucknought, I know what you do, and I know that you've come close on several occasions to what I want you to do.”

 

Matthew's eyes widened. The Green Duchess made a noise of disdain.

 

“Aw, _c'mon!_ Don't give me those goddamned doe eyes! Are you seriously the Fair Rogue or are you just fucking with me?”

 

“I-I just didn't know you knew, Duchess.”

 

“ _Ugh._ How am I _not_ supposed to know?”

 

“Well, I mean, only the Roving Bandits know that. And even then, only Chief Arthur and Second Alfred know the whole story.”

 

The Lady raised an eyebrow. “Not even your father?”

 

Matthew shook his head. He was still nervous and scared shitless of the woman in front of him, but the pretense of innocent village boy was gone.

 

“Hardly. I shouldn't think his heart could take it.”

 

The smirk reappeared on the duchess. “Young Rogue thinks that his father won't approve of his stealing and maiming, what a good son you are.”

 

Matthew shrugged. “Tough times calls for tougher measures.”

 

“Though,” she purposed, her lips a bit puffed out. “If you are the famed Rogue, why are you in a place like this? You should be swimming in money by now.”

 

Matthew walked to the window nearest to them. They'd a slight view of the village.

 

“If you haven't noticed, there's been a drought. For a while. We're farm folk, ma'am. No crops, no money. We've not even enough to feed ourselves, much less sell it to the artisan folks up near the coast. When the tax collector comes around, our hands'd be empty.”

 

“So,” the Duchess interjected, “you saw how much you're paid and thought it wasn't fair to them.”

 

Matthew cocked his head, pondering. “More or less. It just didn't sit well with me knowing I'm here with more than I need and them with nearly nothing.”

 

“Well aren't you a good little boy?” she said with a grin. She looked at the village. “D'you think that they know that their money comes from a rather crookedsource?”

 

Matthew shook his head. “I take pains not to let them know. They're honest people, they don't need to know. But they do need the money. I come around at night and leave a bag of coins after a job.” A small smile appeared on his lips.

 

The Lady of Green's eyes widened, her eyebrows raised, and a knowing smile playing on her lips.

 

“You're perfect for the job, Matthew,” she said, walking up to him. “Think of the village.”

 

Matthew did think of the village. Later that night, he lied to his father, saying he was going to work at The Lady of Green's castle to work as a servant for a few months. He stowed away the bag of gold with the map to the White Baron's abode, and a blueprint of his castle. He packed his bags, hid his daggers, and next morning he was off.

 

The following month was spent surveying and spying on the White Baron's castle, learning every routine, every habit, every pattern. There wasn't much to catalog. Barely anyone came in or out, except the occasional messenger or grocer from the big towns. Matthew hid out in the woods, planning and biding his time, until the perfect night came.

 

_This night isn't as perfect as I thought it would be,_ thought Matthew, clinging to the slippery rock. The wind was blowing harder. Hopefully, if the noise was audible, the Baron'd think it was the the flags or something. God damn. The leather had frayed completely, and the tips of his fingers were bloody. Fuck. He bit his lip. Almost to the window. The Baron usually slept in the armchair of his study, often from late nights of doing paperwork. He had done the same this night, leaving ample chance for Matthew to sneak behind him, slit his throat, and be on his merry way.

 

Matthew's stomach lurched at the idea. He assured himself that it would be quick. A swift, strong slice, and he'd be done. He'd slip out before the Baron even realized he was dead. He'd go back to the Green Countess and collect his reward, and then give it to the villagers. They'd be set for life and he'd never do anything like that again.

 

Catching his breath, he reached the window. Silently, he climbed through the window and slipped into the room, barely disrupting the half-drawn curtains and open windows.

 

He looked around. He could hear soft snoring coming from his left, and looked to see a figure sleeping. Matthew felt himself suffocating.

 

He crept behind towards the White Baron, and stood behind him. Noiselessly taking out his dagger from his belt, Matthew positioned it under the Baron's jaw, and gulped. Oh God, this was it. He could barely breathe. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes shut.

 

“Do you really think I'd go out like this?”

 

Matthew's eyes shot open. Immediately, the White Baron knocked the knife out of Matthew's hand, grabbed his arm and flipped him over the chair. Matthew quickly jerked his body, preventing his neck from snapping. Quick as a spring, he got back up, and aimed a blow at the Baron's head. The Baron raised his arms to block it, but failed to notice Matthew's other fist coming at his abdomen. It hit him in the stomach, and he doubled over.

 

Matthew rushed to find his dagger, and just as it was in his hands, the Baron's body slammed into him, pushing him to the Baron's desk. A bottle of ink spilled on his arm and shirt. The Baron pinned Matthew and started kneeing him in the lower abdomen. He slung an arm over Matthew's throat, nearly choking him. Matthew could feel the metallic taste of blood in the back of his throat. Desperate strength surging, he somehow grappled the Baron onto the desk, face first, and managed to reposition the knife under the Baron's throat again.

 

“I am the Fair Rogue,” whispered Matthew in the Baron's ear, spraying blood on the back of his neck. “And I'm sorry that I have to kill you.”

 

“Not yet, shithead,” croaked the Baron. Matthew didn't register the comment, and was about to slit the Baron's throat, when the Baron maneuvered his legs under Matthew's, causing Matthew to fall, smashing his chin on the desk.

 

The last words that he heard before falling unconscious was the White Baron cackling, “Always watch your feet.”


	2. Roll The Woodpile Down

 Beams of lazy sunlight wafted into the room, little particles of dust flittering. The red curtains were alight from the sun outside, and the nice smell of breakfast drifted into the room. Even before opening his eyes, Matthew groaned.

 

He felt like shit.

 

His whole body ached, his throat felt as if a rat had nested there, his head was pounding while simultaneously splitting into two, and he had a rusty taste in his mouth.

 

But, as he groggily got out of the anesthesia of sleep, he felt something other than pain, pain, and more pain. His bruises and wounds were bandaged. He was in a bed rather than a dungeon. Also he was alive.

 

The facts above were noticed but not fully registered. His eyes were still shut. He tried to move a bit, but immense pain shot through his limbs.

 

“You shouldn't try to move, your muscles are tired from the climbing. Also, I kicked your ass.”

 

Matthew gasped, and tried to open his eyes to see the person speaking. A crust had formed on his eyelid, and he was unable to do so. He tried to move again, but more pain came.

 

He heard the other man tsk. Unable to do anything, he listened to the man move, and then some water sloshing. Soon, the man had put a warm, wet cloth to Matthew's eyes, gently rubbing the crust away.

 

After the cloth was removed, and the water sloshed again, Matthew slowly opened his eyes, and let out a raspy scream, which sent needles into his throat.

 

The man before him was a ghost. White skin, white hair, and scarlet red eyes.

 

Matthew's eyes widened. “D-demon,” he croaked out.

 

“The official term's albino, but the maids back at the main sure thought I was when I screwed them!” he cackled. Matthew could only stare in disbelief.

 

“Who—wh--” Matthew began, swallowing needles once again. The White Baron shushed him.

 

“Do you really think you can speak right now? Shut up until you're better. Here,” he turned to his bag, which was on leaning on the stool the Baron was sitting on, Matthew noticed.

 

“I've some medicine that should help you, and a tonic for your troubles,” he said, digging through the bag. Matthew stared, wide eyed, wondering what was happening and why.

 

“Ah, here,” said the White Baron, bringing out a vial and a bottle. He held up the vial. “Medicine.” Then the bottle. “Tonic.” He uncorked the vial, and held it to Matthew's lips.

 

Matthew recoiled as much as a man in his state could. The White Baron sighed.

 

“It's not poisoned, alright? See,” he said, and took a sip of both the vial and the bottle as Matthew watched. The Baron winced at the taste.

 

“Tastes like a boar's cock, but it's supposed to help.” He put the vial again near Matthew's lips. “C'mon.”

 

Matthew eyed him suspiciously, and then took a sip. He sputtered and the medicine dribbled down his chin. The Baron took a handkerchief and wiped it away, and motioned for Matthew to sip again. He did, and this time managed to gulp it down. They did the same with the bottle of tonic water.

 

“There! Now that's better!” exclaimed the Baron, smiling a crooked grin. Matthew stared.

 

The White Baron was older than him, maybe around his father's age, but looked and acted much younger. A clean cut jaw, and a strong chin. There were slight wrinkles around the eyes and the mouth. Strangely, he was wearing the common folk's clothing, not unlike what Matthew had on.

 

“Now, I know you can't talk and all, but let's get down to business,” he said, leaning closer to Matthew, smiling a strangely familiar wolfish grin. Matthew gulped.

 

“Did Elizabeta send you?” Matthew had had a confused expression, so the Baron reiterated his question.

 

“Did the Green Duchess send you?” he asked.

 

“Oh! Y-ye--” Matthew started, his attempt at words nothing more than a dry whisper. The Baron smushed a finger over Matthew's lips.

 

“ _What did I say about talking?_ Just widen your eyes or nod or something, if you can,” he added.

 

Matthew nodded, dull pain pulsing at the base of his neck. The medicine was working. Though not well enough to get out of bed, he felt slightly better.

 

“Alright. Okay. The bitch sent you. Figures,” he snorted, and a dry, wheezing laugh escaped him. He put his face in his hands, still laughing.

 

Matthew did not understand what was funny, and felt indignant. The Baron noticed his expression, and tried not to break out into giggles.

 

“It's a, it's a game we play,” he said, his jaw twitching to laugh. Matthew squinted his eyes, daring him to elaborate.

 

He sobered. “Ahem. Ah. We usually go into town and pay a poor fuck to go and 'kill' the other. Of course, said fuck doesn't know shit about assassinating, so they usually fail. I send them home after they do so. But apparently this time, ole Eliza's sent someone actually experienced in the criminal ways, eh, _Fair Rogue?_ ”

 

Matthew opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The Baron continued.

 

“I really wasn't expecting you. I was still sleeping until you got out your knife and then you waited. With your fucking breathing exercises. Christ, was this your first hit job, man?”

 

Matthew nodded. He had given up trying to make sense of the situation and just went along with the Baron. The Baron shook his head.

 

“Or near hit, whatever. Still. I've heard about you from the others. You've cost the royal court quite a penny. You and your band of thieves. It's strange that you hesitated at that moment.”

 

Matthew shrugged. The Baron clapped his hands.

 

“Well! I'm glad you did. I'd be dead if you didn't. You put up a hell of a fight though. Young as you, one'd think that experience'd reign in this type of fight. It did, but just barely.” He motioned with his thumb and forefinger.

 

Matthew smiled confusedly. He didn't have a response to that. Or anything, in fact. This whole experience was surreal to him. The man who had “kicked his ass” the night before was now nursing him and telling him that it was all a joke? Matthew, in all his life, had never faced a situation similar to this (in fact most people don't), and didn't know what to feel. So he just sat there, smiled, and tried to make sense of it.

 

“Oh yeah!” exclaimed the White Baron. He looked squarely at Matthew.

 

“I'm the White Baron, though I think you already know that. But you could call me Gilbert.”

 

Matthew nodded slightly. He pursed his lips.

 

“Ma-mat--” he whispered.

 

“Matt?” said Gilbert, picking up on what Matthew was saying. Matthew shook his head, and mouthed his name.

 

“Mattie? Matteo? Matthew?” Matthew nodded swiftly at the last one.

 

Gilbert cracked a crooked grin. “So your name is Matthew! Nice to meet'cha!”

 

He tried to shake Matthew's hand, but saw the pained expression on Matthew's face, and gently patted it instead. Matthew smiled.

 

Gilbert stood up to go. He stopped at the doorway and turned back to Matthew. “Oh, by the way,” he began, wolfish grin reappearing. “I won't turn you in to the King, Fair Rogue.”

 

Matthews eyes widened in sudden remembrance and Gilbert cackled all the way down the hallway.  


	3. Creeping Up the Backstairs

 Breathing heavily, he swung his legs onto the ground. The floor felt strange, and his feet felt as if there were small balls underneath them. They had grown unaccustomed to the floor in the days he stayed in bed. He heaved himself off the bed, the burning pain now dull. He steadied himself on the bed post and tried to walk. One step. Two steps. Left, right, left, right.

 

He let go of the bed post and walked to the door. Left, right, left, right. The strange sensation under his feet stayed. He got to the door, and, leaning slightly on the doorknob, he opened it, and stepped out into the hall, straight into Gilbert.

 

Matthew had grown to like Gilbert in these few days, odd as he was. He had a ton of paperwork for who-knows-what, yet he always stayed lighthearted and stress free, and had time to visit him.

 

“Woah, steady there, son,” said Gilbert, one hand on Matthew's arms and another at his back. Matthew blinked. When he was laying down in bed, he hadn't perceived their height difference. He was at least a couple inches taller than Gilbert.

 

“It's great that you're able to walk aga--”

 

“Hah,” breathed Matthew, no needles in his throat this time. “You're actually short.”

 

Gilbert's eyes widened and his nostrils flared. He puffed himself up. “Well I'm _so-rry_ I'm not a fucking _corn stalk_ like you. Where the hell are your muscles, _goddamn._ I may be shorter, but I could kick your skinny ass any day. Fuck, I already have!”

 

“Don't get so touchy, shortie,” laughed Matthew.

 

“ _Shortie?!_ ” exclaimed Gilbert. “I'm _Gilbert fucking Beilschmidt_!”

 

“While you have fun fucking a Beilschmidt, what's for breakfast?”

 

“That's my second name, you ass.”

 

“I know, I know,” said Matthew, apologetically. “I'm just teasing. I'm sorry.”

 

“Pffft,” snorted Gilbert, as he led Matthew to the kitchen. “I nurse you back to health and _this_ is the payment I get? Is there even a god?” He waved his arms.

 

“Let's not forget the reason you had to nurse me.”

  
“Ew, dude, don't phrase it like that. I didn't, like, breast feed you.”

 

“How the _shitting_   _fuck_ did you come to that conclusion?”

 

And so it went. Gilbert led the way to kitchen, whilst Matthew marveled at his castle. Small compared to the others', it was still enormous in Matthew's eyes. He marveled at the various tapestries that they passed, the stone brick walls underneath. His eyes practically lit up at the spiral staircase. As Matthew slipped down the staircase, enjoying the feel of the cool stone on his bare feet, he tried to hide his amusement, but Gilbert noticed anyway. His heart swelled with pride. So much so, instead of taking the short way to the kitchen, he took Matthew to the dinner hall, a spacious room with a long table and chairs and ornate windows, and took the servants' route from there. He grinned at Matthew's astonishment.

 

“I don't usually see castles like this during the day,” said Matthew, as they walked down the servant's passage. “It's a nice change.”

 

Gilbert agreed. Soon, they came upon the kitchen, and Gilbert got out some bread, a few eggs, and a pan. He struck a fire and started cooking. Matthew stood near the table, unsure of what to do.

 

Gilbert glanced back at him. “I found some oranges a couple days ago at the market. Fetched a pretty price, but they're rare this time of year. Put them over there. Get 'em out and make some juice. There's a pitcher in pantry.”

 

Matthew went over to the pantry and found the pitcher. He put it on the table and then went over to the cabinets where the oranges were. He took out a few, sliced them, and then squeezed the juice into the pitcher. When he was done, he turned to face Gilbert, who was getting plates and glasses. They set the table, and Gilbert slid two eggs onto his and Matthew's plate, then broke a loaf of bread in half and gave it to Matthew.

 

“Eat up, man. You got to get your strength back,” said Gilbert, pointing a fork at him, his mouth full of egg and bread. Matthew raised an eyebrow.

 

They ate in silence. Once they were finished, Matthew rose from his seat to wash the dishes, when Gilbert stopped him.

 

“Sit your ass back down. I'll do it.”

 

Gilbert started washing the dishes, his back to Matthew. Matthew watched him for a few seconds, when something hit him.

 

“Where are your servants?” he said, almost to himself.

 

“Hm?” replied Gilbert, glancing back at him.

 

“Yeah, where are your servants? You're a Baron, right?”

 

Gilbert turned back to his washing. “Don't have any.”

 

“Why not, though?”

 

“I like being alone.”

 

Matthew pondered. “So, it's only you here?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“No wife or kids or anything?”  


“Nope.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Gilbert turned to Matthew, looking him in the eye. “Listen, kid. Some people are built to be alone. People like me.” He shrugged. “S'no big deal.”

 

Matthew nodded, unsure of what he was feeling, and Gilbert started to dry the dishes and pan. Once he was done, he sat himself down in front of Matthew, and stared. Matthew scrunched his eyebrows.

 

“What?”

 

Gilbert squinted his eyes, as if to see better.

 

“ _What?_ ” Matthew repeated, annoyed.

 

“I'm just wondering how a kid like you got into robbing the King's court.”

 

Matthew sighed, and leaned back on his chair. “I'm from a farming village. We've been going through a drought, and we can barely feed ourselves. I had to do something. Nobody else was going to.”

 

“Which village?”

 

“Knoxley, down south.”

 

Gilbert knitted his eyebrows in concentration, then widened his eyes in surprise. “But, they've had a drought for five years! Even the king has given up on them!”

 

Matthew nodded.

 

“Wait,” Gilbert said, realizing something. “How old are you?”

 

“21.”

 

“Meaning you started this when you were... _16?_ ” Gilbert exclaimed in disbelief.

 

Matthew nodded again. “First it was just small stuff. Stealing food from the kitchens, or swiping the occasional courier's purse. But then I met the Bandits, and it just went up from there.”

 

Gilbert leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Christ,” he breathed. “You were just a kid.” He shook his head. “Fuck, man, you still are a kid.”

 

Matthew shrugged. He didn't think much of it.

 

Gilbert raised his eyebrows at the gesture. “You're really used to this, aren't you?”

 

“It appears so.”

 

Gilbert looked at him, and then started laughing that dry, wheezy laugh. He rested his head on the table, still laughing, and gripped the edges.

 

“What's so funny?” Matthew asked, his eyebrows crawling towards each other at his rising confusion and annoyance.

 

“No, nothing's funny,” Gilbert said, head still on the table. Slowly, he looked up at Matthew. The other man's blonde curls were free of their usual ponytail, and were hanging loosely around his face. His jaw was strong, but still had the sense of pubescence clinging to it. He couldn't believe that a man this young could swindle his peers out of a good portion of their money.

 

“You're good, man,” he replied. “You're fucking good.”

 


End file.
